Gemotions

He snatched the remote from the coffee table, his fingers clenching around it like a lifeline. His father, in his usual armchair uniform of khakis and a tucked-in polo, looked up, eyebrows raised in a silent query. "What are you watching?" his father asked, his voice slow and deliberate. "Nothing of your concern," Mark snapped, already scrolling through the channels. The familiar scent of his mother's pot roast permeated the air, a scent he'd once found comforting, now a potent reminder of his diminished circumstances. He’d spent his life trying to escape this small town, and here he was, back again, a failure in the eyes of his folks, and he knew it.